Restoration
by ruth baulding
Summary: Epilogue to Lineage VI. Master and padawan test the resilience of their mutual trust after a near-disastrous mission. In short scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Restoration**

* * *

_Sunset._

I light the meditation candle – the one with two wicks embedded in one pale column of sweet-scented bezzil wax – and set it upon the polished floor between us. My padawan's eyes glint with an amused chagrin as I spark the twin flames to vibrancy out of thin air, snapping my fingers above each black twist of wick in turn, kindling the Force to momentary fire around them. I have not taught him this skill, teasingly withholding the secret like some jealous parlour magician keeping an unworthy apprentice at bay.

If he asks tonight, I will show him, for such paltry games no longer have the resonance of humor between us. But he does not inquire, merely watches the quavering spindles of fire with those too-old eyes, ready to begin, focused on this present task as I am not yet.

Thus does the circle find completion, the student teaching the master. I have learned much from my padawan, many things the hard way – the only way, my own former mentors were wont to bemoan, that wisdom can be driven into my stubborn heart. One thing I have so learned at his feet is to shape the raiment to the wearer; I shall forever prefer to impart wisdom through direct experience, intuitive exercises, puzzling koans – but Obi-Wan, by contrast, flourishes within the demanding strictures of rubric, schema, ritual formality. Until _him,_ I always supposed these ways lesser: outward and ossified. But he has shown me how the vigor of form may channel passion and devotion that might otherwise run rampant over psychic plains. His soul, running with the furor of youth and the white intensity of his spirit, carves those containing banks deeper, a river shaping itself to its predestined course, filling the teachings, renewing them, obeying them, giving them perpetual rebirth in the present, his future self a depth and wisdom yet unrealized.

I anyone could cause me to question the unruly and rebellious dictates of my heart, it is he. We are often at odds because of this- but this is not the time to indulge in such pleasant, habitual opposition. We will begin this meditation _his_ way, for the Living Force and my superior experience tell me that before all is done we must end it _mine._

"Let us begin," I say.

We anchor ourselves in the pair of flickering lights: a child's tool, but one we have both humbly relied upon since _that_ mission, rebuilding our shattered harmony from the ground up. Besides, the flames are beautiful, the aromas of the candle sweet as any chandrilan balsawood incense. The Force pulls us closer, deeper into itself, granting its own permission to commence.

My part here is to ask, his to answer. In truth, we both have much to learn, or relearn, but Obi-Wan prefers the burden and surety of defined roles. "What are the three pillars?" I intone.

"Knowledge, skill, the Force." A response as automatic as breathing.

"And upon what three foundations do these pillars rest?"

He knows this by heart. Its recitation brings him peace. "Humility, patience, obedience." Since I don't immediately pick up the thread of response again, he continues. "Just as the corresponding false foundations are pride, ambition, and domination, upon which rest the false edifice of power, defiled temple of the Dark Side."

I watch him as he half-chants the ancient words. There is something in the easy condemnation – a trace of hauteur is it? or faint self-righteousness? – that raises my nape hairs, reminds me that he is _very young; _yet there is also beneath those dulcet tones a supple steel to match their intent, a fire of conviction that melts such suspicions to dross and seals the truth of his words with a promise of blood and tears.

In his hands, rite becomes revelation. Another time, I will meditate on whether this is part of my reluctance to conform perfectly to tradition. Insight can be perilous. For now, we will go onward, perhaps deviating _slightly_ from the strict path.

"Of the three foundations, which is pre-eminent?" This is not actually part of the traditional catechesis – I have innovated, rogue that I am, but the detour is couched in the formal terms he loves, and I see by the glint in his half-hooded eyes that the challenge had been accepted.

Obi-Wan smiles faintly, sinking deeper into the Force, inviting me to follow. How treacherous a thing is teaching. "None is pre-eminent among the three," he replies, not missing a stride, as fluidly as though his mind has coursed over these river stones countless times, wearing the thoughts smooth. Who knows? Perhaps he has. The boy is given to brooding. "Humility begets patience, patience begets obedience, obedience begets humility. There is no true beginning or ending of a circle, which has as origin and definition only relative to its center." Something tells me he is _improvising,_ speaking out of profound intuition and the Force, oracular. Face just past the softness of childhood, hardening into maturity but yet unlined… the effect is disconcerting . I exhale when he does.

"And what is that center?"

He skewers me with a look that passes straight through my body and into Unifying depths. "Trust, Master." The trance-state falters, and that alarming gaze wavers, falls back into focus upon my face. A tiny furrow of disapproval appears between his brows. "That question isn't in the formulary, you know."

"My prerogative." My fingers brush his knee, root us back in the physical, in the here and now. Obi-Wan hiccups, once – an endearing involuntary response when he surfaces from meditation too quickly, one I have the good grace to ignore lest I embarrass him with an old man's sentiment. "But the answer is a good one. We shall make it the focus of our exercises tomorrow."

And gone is the oracle, replaced by flesh-and-blood padawan, adolescent and apprehensive. He's forgotten to reinforce his shields, and I can feel his pulse quicken. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" he grumbles.

He can feel at least the penumbra of my intent. "You must trust me," I quip, impulsively.

It is a bad one. His ill-defined perturbation morphs into bitterness. His teeth clench as he swallows, but we are too fresh from the Force to slip into discord. He does not look away, though the thoughtless remark hurt. "Yes, but it's still… difficult. I'm sorry, Master." Graceful dip of head.

His honesty sears. I breathe through the deserved reminder. "Accept my apology instead," I answer.

He offers me a pale smile and reaches to snuff the candle-flames, but I stay his hand with mine. "We'll leave this to burn; tomorrow will be an extension of this meditation."

"Yes, Master." I might wish he did not look so wary, so guarded – but I cannot blame him After all, the last time I directly asked him to trust me, I whipped him until he screamed. To save both our lives, it is true, and he will admit it. But some scars are not healed by bacta alone. We have carefully, painstakingly approached and prepared for this over the last six weeks, rebuilding foundations with patience, obedience, and humility. Now we must place the final cornerstone and see whether the restored edifice will stand the trial.

Is there any wonder we both feel a small jolt of trepidation?

"We ought to both rest well tonight," I decide, placing our luminous anchor within a shallow wall alcove. He bows, and we retreat to our respective chambers in silence.

I leave the candle burning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Restoration**

* * *

_Dawn._

There are many in the Temple who rise early by habit or necessity; but I was the only one in the smaller arboretum this morning at such an hour. Those few whom I encounter in the hushed concourses and halls as I return to the residential wing greet me with a quiet nod – for we are united in the exclusive fraternity of those who daily greet the new-risen sun, all of us upon some contemplative path, wrapped in the serenity of the day's beginning.

It is hard, at such a time, to remember that my business is far more pragmatic and pointed on this particular morning, but it is. The door to our quarters opens at a brush of my hand, and I cross the dim interior of the common room, where the meditation candle's twin flames still burn, and tread softly toward the smaller bedroom's door. It, too, opens at the slightest nudge of the Force, admitting me to the miniscule domain beyond. The windowless interior chamber is little more than a monk's cell – large enough to accommodate a low sleep mat, a desk, a closet and barely sufficient space to maneuver between them and the door. The only illumination is the soft blue night-lamp in one corner, a relic of deterred nightmares past, or a symbolic sanctuary-lantern, it is hard to say which. The room is fastidiously neat, unless you count the sleeper: lean body sprawled with abandon diagonally across the low bed, single blanket thrashed into a rumpled heap, pillow mashed beneath one dangling arm, one bare foot resting upon the floor, ready to launch its owner into action at a half-moment's notice.

Obi-Wan performs _kata_ in his sleep, I would swear. Ataru last night, by the look of it.

The encouraging fact is that he remains asleep – I have not shielded my presence from him, and I know that at some subliminal level he is aware of me standing here in his doorframe. At such proximity, at such an advantage, I could easily _kill_ him were I a foe – and yet he does not stir, telling me in terms more lucid and touching than words can convey that I am perceived at heart as no threat at all, indeed, as hardly other than self. This emboldens me. I take a tentative step forward, then another. A moment later, I have clamped one hand over his mouth, awakening and silencing him in one fell swoop.

"Be still," I warn. "Don't move."

Tense muscles relax, and wide blue eyes squint up at me, alarm swiftly replaced by mild aggravation. I remove my hand, reaching for a belt pouch where I have tucked away the soft stretch of cloth.

His mouth thins into a wry line and he rolls his eyes at me before I tie it in place. "You wake me up to blindfold me?" he inquires, voice rasping with sleep. "Isn't that a bit counterproductive?" But he doesn't move, as I instructed, so I understand the complaint is a mere salute, one of those showy saber flourishes he is so fond of.

"Good morning to you too," I offer in reply.

"Oxymoron," he grunts, starting to stretch the stiffness out of his limbs.

"Stay still," I warn. "I told you today's exercises would center on trust."

"It isn't technically _today_ yet, Master." A soft snort of disdain, but he does obey the injunction, deliberately relaxing, only his fingers fretting vexedly against the thin mattress-covering.

I am not one to quibble over technicalities and he knows it. "Are you ready to start?"

"Apparently I am, whether I want to be or not."

Outside a Force-enhanced adrenal response, it takes Obi-Wan a solid five minutes to attain full wakefulness, and another ten to regain his civility in the morning – at least, when he has been roused before dawn. I will forgive the sniping rejoinders for the time being, settling for mere cooperation. Part of trust is understanding – and it would be unreasonable of me to demand more at this juncture. Especially considering what I am about to do. It takes a moment to retrieve my small friend from the interior tunic pocket where he has been squirming the last twenty minutes, but my fingers close about his hard-shelled body at last, slipping him out between the warm folds of cloth. He vigorously objects to the further imposition upon his routine, and I feel a small pang of guilt at having plucked him from the flowering yarbanna grove for my own obscure purposes.

"What are we doing, Master?" Obi-Wan is growing impatient.

"You," I inform him, "are holding still." I gently deposit the wriggling megapede upon the soft skin at the hollow of his throat, suppressing a chuckle when he freezes into a startled rigidity, a faint hiss of breath sucked in between his teeth.

"What is _that?"_ He does not move. I can feel the slow uncoiling of instinctual fear, somewhere buried deep beneath years and years of Jedi training.

"Nothing harmful, trust me."

Those are tricky words, deliberately chosen. His chest rises with the Yamalsa centering breath and the curious megapede bumbles his curious way along, stumbling upon Obi-Wan's collarbone, tiny legs feeling their way cautiously as it traverses the obstacle and creeps down his sternum.

"Master…"

I do not offer reassurance or clarification. Despite the calming exercises, the image of a _firebeetle_ flashes like summer lightning across our Force bond, stark and electrifying. I make no rebuttal of his imagination's dreadful guess, allowing the question to spiral out into empty speculation. The megapede is making a slow, agonizing and ticklish reconnaissance of his ribcage, those feathery legs just brushing over exposed flesh, the long feelers groping ahead blindly as it proceeds leisurely on its morning walk. I can feel my padawan just _itching_ to tug the waistband of his sleep pants up a bit further. Certainly his fingers are clenching at his sides.

"Don't move." I issue the reminder just in case. Hordes of firebeetles clamor for attention at the margins of my awareness, until I shut out the intruding image. I tighten my shields, lest a depiction of this harmless garden crawler translate back across the bond in its turn.

"…_Sith-spit!" _ Now the megapede has ventured out onto his belly, gripping a bit harder because the terrain is quivering with tiny seismic spasms, which only heightens the effect. My own flesh is starting to crawl in sympathy, especially when the bright little creature shoves a feeler deep into Obi-Wan's navel and explores, causing him to bite his lip and _plead_ with me – a flush of urgency washing over me in the Force. Not yet, young one. Not yet.

The megapede obliviously continues its peregrination, heading yet lower. Mental shields notwithstanding, I swear I can hear chittering beetles, see the opalescent gleam of crimson beneath their carapaces, feel their gnawing hunger. For a moment, I myself have to look at the crawler twice, just to be sure. And yet Obi-Wan remains still- perhaps a trifle _too_ still, but I will not complain. When he releases a breath, I realize he had been holding it.

"It won't hurt you," I reassert, though the brave megapede has now thrust its head and feelers beneath the soft edge of his waistband and is beginning to gently undulate its way into the warm cave thus discovered. I think the sound my padawan just made qualifies as a strangled sort of whimper – and I am not a cruel man. Besides, this is only the first exercise of the day. An act of mercy is in order so I pluck the intrepid many-legged explorer from his place and let him curl himself around my fingers instead, watching its unintended victim visibly melt with relief.

"What was that about?" he snarls, bolting upright and vigorously rubbing both hands over his skin, as though to purge away the remnants of tickling sensation. Then, as regret for these harsh words seeps in, "I'm sorry, Master." Bowed head. "But that was _not…._not a pleasant awakening."

I touch his shoulder and he flinches.

"I told you it was harmless," I remind him. Deep breath; this _is_ cruel, from a certain point of view. "Do you not trust me?"

I would like to think the brutal honesty of his reply is attributable to his early-morning temper, but I know in my heart it is merely his own forthright nature that speaks. "For the most part."

I deserve this, so I accept it. The crawler bites the soft tissue between thumb and forefinger and I suck in a sharp breath at that, too. I wasn't aware it was provided with tiny pincers, but the pain is a reminder that I can be arrogant, presumptive, and that even my fallible promise does not wholly guarantee a thing's truth.

What a day this will be. "We will fast this entire cycle," I tell him. It is a common practice, and he does not issue objection or express surprise. "But I think we can make an allowance for tea. Come – and leave the blindfold on."

The day is young, and we have much still to accomplish.


	3. Chapter 3

**Restoration**

* * *

_Morning._

We attract a few prurient stares and whispered remarks as we traverse the corridors toward the south hangar bay, Obi-Wan walking sedately one step behind and to the left, in a padawan's traditional position, still blindfolded. I am able to deflect unwanted attention with a burning glare. As Dexter Jettster is fond of saying, _there is no figuring a Jedi master;_ I reflect that even a few of the Temple's own denizens could stand to be reminded of this vital truth, and if the onerous duty of reminding the junior ranks what degree of circumspection is proper to their station, I shall gladly do so. The last knot of initiates actually flees from my imagined wrath, disappearing down an adjacent hallway with Force-enhanced speed.

"You overdid it," Obi-Wan tells me.

I could threaten to gag him, but I have grown accustomed to the commentary, to the banter – and besides, I need it as a reliable indicator of his true mood, the only external indicator by which one may rightly judge. So long as the caustic jokes and cutting asides continue, he is not truly shaken. I have heard him exercise his dark wit in battle, in danger, in illness, in distress of all kinds – but tip him over into _real_ anger, into personal hurt, and that sharp tongue becomes as unforgiving as a 'saber's blade, seeking to score a burning hit, to cauterize his own aching heart with truths so blunt and yet so edged they take away the breath. Had he said to me _the younglings already know what you taught me the hard way,_ I would have been stunned, the blow finding its unerring mark.

But that is not what he said, so we are still friends, for the time being.

The vehicle requisitions droid proves as supercilious and obstreperous as ever, much to my apprentice's amusement. By the time I have finally convinced the star-forsaken thing to cease its effrontery and release a small air-car into my custody, Obi-Wan is all but grinning with mirth, two grooved dimples proclaiming his delight in my frustration, in the perennial absurdity that is the Temple's "service" bot brigade.

"Patience, Master. Humility," he pertly reminds me.

"Obedience would be beneficial as well," I add, but the strike falls too late. He has already dodged it. "Indeed. We should not resent the strict rules and protocols our mechanical friend so passionately upholds."

I lead the way to the battered vehicle. It is an older model, but I have confidence the craft is maintained in perfect working order. I watch him jump lightly over the gap between pedestrian arcade and docking pad without a hitch, light-footed as a colwar. "Droids do not have passions."

He settles into the pilot's seat, smirking. "Then why are you perturbed? If droids have no passions, then they are not malicious or benign – they simply _are."_

"Brat. I am piloting, Move over."

This is a good beginning to our short excursion. He has won the first bout, and that relaxes him wonderfully, a happy alertness suffusing the Force. "Where are we headed?" he inquires as I edge the small air-car out into Coruscant's skies and skim toward the distant free-fly lanes outside the Temple precinct.

His first mistake –one natural to youth, but charmingly naïve for one possessing the privilege of a Jedi upbringing – is to assume that we are going somewhere. The journey _is_ the destination, in this case; what better means of exploring the parameters of trust than to take one who by his own admission "hates flying" into the hectic and lawless airlanes of Coruscant's overpopulated megalopolis? Blindfolded. On the passenger side.

"I thought we might enjoy a brief jaunt in the city," I say, off-handed.

Air-cars are outfitted with grav compensation fields that ensure passengers and pilots are not thrown about unduly during flight, and which take the place of the more burdensome and restrictive crash harness systems one sees in high-speed atmospheric vessels, where the grav-comp generator cannot possibly accommodate wild shifts in acceleration and altitude. I adjust ours to maximum power, feeling the additional pull of the mass-simulator as an artificial weight deep in the gut, an incontrovertible heaviness in the limbs.

"Master."

That one word holds a plethora of meanings, most of them somewhere in the spectrum of nervous disapproval. I set my jaw and steel my nerve. He is _not_ going to like this – and truth be told, neither am I – but this is for our mutual benefit, a necessary evil. "Trust me," I say, which is the signal for the exercise to begin.

Would I truly do anything to risk both our necks?

Beyond reasonable need or circumstance, that is. I plunge past the first regulated fly-lane and drive hard into the canyons below, dodging over and under the streaming traffic, heading for the adjacent industrial district, where there is danger aplenty but fewer innocents to imperil. I keep the accelerator engaged, picking up enough speed to make the intakes whine and to press us back into the seats, jagging and twisting as I carve a downward path in violation of all the standard traffic laws.

Obi-Wan's hands clutch hard at the edge of his seat and the interior panel, mouth contracted in a straight and displeased line. I can _feel_ his toes curling in his boots, his breaths measured very deliberately, steady inhalations maintained only through severe discipline.

Once free of other vehicles, I am free to rely more recklessly upon the Force and instinct. Such stunts are not my favorite pastime, by any means – perspiration slicks my hands upon the yoke as I corkscrew past a disused pedestrian bypass and dive into a canyon between vast factories, dodging huge pipelines and jutting power coils, moving crane equipment, blasting furnace outlets.

Beside me, my passenger is rigid and silent – his presence in the Force a single piercing note of alarm, a shrilling claxon. He cannot see the looming obstacles, which only makes it worse: in the Force, he senses their approach, feels the subtle promptings: _turn, dive, twist, duck - _ the same impulses I obey a half-second later than I should , a purposeful delay, playing with fire as we hurtle through this durasteel labyrinth at breakneck speed.

I have to admit, I am frightened myself, and I allow that fact to leak across the bond, accentuating my own nervous tension, the danger and risk of this headlong flight. Obi-Wan tenses further, muscles coiled tight in readiness for a spring, for a collision, for instant obliteration, his face dampened with a sheen of sweat to match mine, the Force roaring with strident warning in both our ears, pounding wildly in our blood.

Trust me, trust the Force, trust me to trust the Force –

But we are screaming along the razor's edge of panic now, focus narrowed to a moment that encompasses but a breathtaking millisecond of speed, of narrowly missed death. I am shaking, and my own center will not hold much longer if we continue to play this dangerous game, so I decelerate, rise, smooth out our erratic course, and find a suitable rooftop upon which to settle the overheating craft.

No sooner have a set down than he is over the side – a nicely executed backflip, I must admit, though he lands a bit unsteadily.

I release the yoke and bring my own heartrate back under control. "Get back in," I order.

Poor creature – he is utterly white-faced, beneath the dark blindfold. "No."

"That was a direct command," I growl.

"With your permission," he amends, breathing a bit too deeply, "I'll find my own way back. Master."

No surprise there- and I am pleased to see that respect and obedience have not been abandoned along the roadside of his alarm. "Why?" I inquire, as mildly as possible. Here is the real test. "Do you not trust my piloting skills?"

"Your _skills,_ yes," he snaps. "Your sanity, perhaps not."

The air-car's console is a parade-ground of lights and warnings. I have abused it to the limit of its endurance, much like my beleaguered padawan. "I promise you, Obi-Wan, the return journey will be different."

"Different how?" He is a wise one, this boy.

"Different." That is all I will offer; this is an exercise in implicit knowledge, in personal commitment, not negotiation and plea bargaining.

Some color has returned to his face. I can feel him nudging petulantly at my mental shields, demanding entrance, but I draw up my defenses and repel the gentle assault, projecting only a sincere hope that he will place his life in my hands again on the way back to the Temple.

He isn't quite ready for that, however. "I hate flying," he explains, arms crossing over his chest.

"You hate the way flying makes you feel," I correct. Out of control. Possessed and subjugated, freefalling. He reserves these conditions exclusively to the Force, and cannot bear to be so _vulnerable_ to mere physical impetus and speed, inertia and gravity, the lesser forces that bind the universe together. We've been over this before. "Flying itself is simply a means of getting from place to place."

Deep breath. "I'll find my own way."

It hurts, but I am not surprised. Nor am I in the habit of ready surrender. "You made a different choice when it was placed before you last month." He had, in fact, the Council's tacit permission to transfer apprenticeship, to leave the yoke of my teachings permanently. It was his decision to remain by my side.

The scowl that answers me is priceless; another might mistake it for disgust, or a deepening of his negative resolve, but I see only the clash of principle with preference. He loses the battle, and curses loudly – a Huttese imprecation colorful enough to make a space pirate blush.

And then he vaults back into the passenger side. "_Fine_."

"That language will cost you two laps around the Temple perimeter when we return, and I do not care that you are fasting."

"Fine." Surly.

"I am honored that you trust me far enough to get back in this vehicle."

"Just do it. Take us back."

"Three laps."

"Fine."

"_Four."_

He knows his own physical limits well, and holds his tongue, turning his face away from me, posture ramrod straight, aura simmering with barely contained dread and annoyance.

This is not a fantastic success, so far as the exercise in concerned, but it is a step. I consider its implications all the way back to the Temple, a journey I make as smoothly as possible, at an economical and leisurely pace, in conformity with every posted safety regulation. Despite the obvious armistice, he does not grace me with a single word, and I release a slow breath.

It is going to be a long and difficult day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Restoration**

* * *

_Meridian._

I wait for him upon the topmost step of the grand entry plaza stairwell, flanked by the massive honor guard, Jedi of foregone ages captured in memorial stone, the guardians of the Temple's august ceremonial entrance. Obi-Wan paces himself, taking the four circuits at a less headlong pace than he might otherwise. Hunger by now has set in for both of us, and the lightheaded clarity that initially follows. The sun claws its way to across the ecliptic, attaining it noontime post before my padawan completes his assigned penance and jogs to a panting halt before me, kneeling on the second step and looking warily up at me.

He does not offer formal apology or any other of the traditional phrases he might employ to demonstrate his repentance, and I understand that it is merest obedience and not true contrition that bade him complete the penalty. We are at an impasse, and it falls to my part to overcome the obstacle, to push us a little farther than we have yet progressed. For today we must, by a infinitesmal calculus of resentment, approach the limit of trust without surpassing it, bringing us back to that liminal edge where we teetered so precariously six weeks ago.

The only way to know for certain is to relive the moment. But we are not yet there.

"I'm famished," he says.

"I know."

What next? The meditation is far from finished, our mutual vigil nowhere near complete. I stand, and he echoes the movement, summoning his cloak from the balustrade and draping its heavy folds over one arm. We will visit the salles next, I think. There lie familiar dangers, ones that can be marshaled to my cause.

We walk in silence, I considering the next step in this game of strategy, the stakes for which I must gamble, however unwillingly, and he – he letting his own thoughts wander without check, without the defense of invisible barriers and shields. Perhaps he has let his guard down purposefully, to punish me with his uncertainty; perhaps he is just shaken enough not to be mindful.

In any case, I can feel his umbrage slowly dissolve into vague brooding, the extended run purging his ill –temper of its bitter undercurrent and allowing a silt of doubt to settle in its place. He can not understand how the day's successive challenges serve to build and affirm the tenuous accord we have established again; he thinks the exercise absurd, destructive, and perhaps shadowed by perversity, an enjoyment of his discomfort. Another, subtler, part of himself wonders whether the perversity is his, whether in submitting to the tests he merely invites his own perturbation, whether the true test is one of courage, of his ability to say _no_ without fear of loss.

I can feel the thought form and precipitate into conscious awareness like a sudden hail-fall. He stops in his tracks. "Master."

I halt, feigning patience. My heart is treacherously skipping against my ribs.

"Master… what if I were to say no? To this – this whole day?"

I fold my hands into opposite sleeves. I cannot beg, or implore, or cajole It is unbecoming, and if this is his decision, the failure is mine. "Then we end the meditation here. You will return to quarters and snuff the candle, and we will present ourselves before the Council this evening, for direction and discipline. "

We will fail with dignity. We are Jedi. That my heart will break is a fact that has no relevance, and to which I shall not hold him hostage. This entire mess was of my making.

He nods, utterly sober, and I brace myself. "We cannot accept another mission unless this… issue is resolved," he says.

An understatement. How he loves to mock tragedy by belittling it. "Yes."

"Let's continue," he suggests, leading the way onward. And I can do nothing but follow behind, humiliatingly relieved, reminded of the adage about the blind leading the blind. Were it not for the Light, we should both wander without compass or guide. Here, in the gloaming realm between past and our unsecured future, we both stumble in the wake of the Force's willowick beacon, groping our way forward, roles malleable and liable to inversion.

When we attain the refuge of the dojo, it is Obi-Wan who takes the lead. He strides to the center of the empty salle, gait fluid with renewed confidence, with something verging on anger without quite succumbing to its lure. He pivots, a kata's motion, and whips the blindfold off, tossing at me with an insouciant flick of the wrist. "Your turn."

Stars, what a haughty barve he could be were it not for the soft heart within. A full head and shoulders shorter than I am, a stripling in years, two full ranks inferior, hungry, sore, and cognizant that I have seen him at his absolute _perigee- _wounded, ill, distraught, gripped by nightmare or vision, drowning in self-loathing, in doubt, in fury – and he still stands there with the unruffled panache of a _master—_

- I will say it again, this boy could be a _great_ Jedi -

a master challenging some upstart novice who has overstepped his bounds. That would be me. The maverick, called to accounting. I catch the strip of cloth with equal ease and play along, securing it over my own eyes. Without sight, I can see his mood more clearly. Seedling outrage, yes, and something more: courage. He wants to seize the draigon by the beard, level this playing field. "What am I to do?"

"Nothing," comes the reply, pitched light as air, weighted with deadly implication. Oh, I have taught too well, and he is far too quick a study. I hear and sense the four remotes he sets to hovering in the room's distant corners, the slap of his saber's hilt against his hand. "You will have to trust me, Master."

This is a day of meditation, and he has more than my trust in this regard- he has my admiration. Four remotes is difficult, but he is equal to the task.

And now he adds two more. "Obi-Wan," I chide, severely," You have never faced six armed remotes, and you are defending two large targets." There are limits – prudence alone dictates that I set limits to his rash gesture.

"Then make yourself smaller, Master. I can't protect both of us otherwise."

My hands go to my belt, thumbs hooking between the two layers of nerf-hide. Not a rash gesture then, but a coolly calculated gambit, the budding tactician at work upon my fortifications. I am not sure I like this – but then again, that is the whole point. "Padawan," I begin, searching for the right note. In this mood, he could actually bring one or both of us to harm.

"I handled myself rather well against overwhelming odds _before,_ do you not agree, Master? Quite without your assistance."

Ah, so we are not friends at this moment. That was a biting truth, no mere dark jest. I exhale, releasing remembered pain, the image of him surrounded and cornered by a horde of enemies, of my feigned betrayal. Someone so perspicacious should not be so soft-edged; it is easier to accept barbed insight from Master Yoda, who is hoary and ruthless, than from my own apprentice, who is winces at his own words, who almost apologizes before the strike is delivered and yet will not spare the blow. "I stand corrected."

He closes the space between us and has the audacity to relive me of my 'saber, tucking it into his own belt. Exhale. Within the sacred boundaries of this exercise, we must leave room for push and pull, for the ebb and flow of the Living Force. And I do have much to learn. Let him play master for a short time.

"Youngling's pose," he commands, imperious, hefting his own weapon's hilt into defensive guard position. The moment the blade is activated, the six hovering droids will open fire, and I will wager they are set to full stun. Obi-Wan's caution and reserve dissipate only in slumber and in battle. I grit my teeth and obey, curling into the first meditation pose taught to any of us, the plant-in-seed form, knees tucked beneath chest, head down and encircled by arms, back curved – whole body rolled into a protective ball. It has the accidental aspect of supplication, also, an aesthetic coincidence not wasted on my ironic young friend. He braces one foot against my side, and props the other knee upon my back, effectively straddling me, and then I hear the 'saber snap and hiss into life.

And the twang of six shots, and the wild sweep of his blade, and the heat of the dissipating plasma, and the scent of ozone. His weight grinds into my back as he shifts, pivots, rebounds fire into the walls and ceiling. Huddled here beneath him, I would be a fool to move. The sizzling proximity of that searing blue line as it passes within inches of my head, my back, my _arse,_ for Force's sake – that is sufficient warning to remain motionless, the protected, the helpless and _small._ I hear the drone of repulsors, the whine of targeting mechanisms, the winging shriek of the bolts, and for a moment I feel pure fear blossom and go to seed within my chest, a bright flaring of denial.

I too have my vulnerabilities, and this is one. That I am aware of it, that I have already faced it down time and again, does not somehow weigh in the balance now. Obi-Wan's focus wavers as he senses my incipient distress, the current of tension running along our bond. His saber-work grows sloppy; we stand a very real chance of being hit. And yet he continues, the Force pouring over the brink of the potential, guiding his hands in a dance without pattern or step, intercepting the barrage of stun bolts before they can find their target.

_Stop now. Stop before you go too far._

He ignores me. "Trust me, Master." The words are gritted out between short breaths, between lightning-fast parries and in the turgidity of my own mind, they ring with a mocking timber. And blast him if the scenario he has painted here transforms in my treacherous inner vision, becomes _real,_ he standing over an incapacitated me instead of running, instead of saving himself, foolishly risking life and liberty to preserve an old and already incapacitated master -

And then he misses, as I knew he would, taking a glancing blow to his raised knee, one that knocks his breath away and leaves him open for the second shot, the one that skips off his blade and lands between his shoulder blades. And he still falls _across _me, shielding my body even as he goes down.

The droids cease firing.

And now I am the one cursing. "Obi-Wan." You young idiot. He's out cold – because he _cannot _ play for low stakes. My heart is pounding irrationally fast, the vibrant hammer of my pulse too fast for this mere training accident, responding instead to that dreaded vignette he conjured up to test me. When his eyelids flutter open, I am greeted with a rueful grimace.

"Hell's moons," he grumbles, "That was a bit of overkill." He scowls up at the quiescent remotes, as though _they_ are responsible for this debacle.

"You needn't have set them to full power," I point out, my breath finally ratcheting down, settling into proper rhythm.

"Are you all right, Master?" A faintly censorious gaze.

We both know the answer. I close my eyes and bow my head. "We will meditate on this later," I promise. My own weaknesses are not exempt from the scalpel's edge of examination. What unsettles me is the accuracy of his perceptions in tat regard. To be known with such acuity demands its own kind of trust.

I offer him a hand up. "Shall we continue?"

But of course we will; it is too late to turn back now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Restoration**

* * *

_Afternoon._

We are both aching for food now, so we take a long detour around the upper level refectory and return to quarters. Obi-Wan waves the balcony doors to a more opaque tint, and sinks onto a meditation cushion while I prepare tea. In its alcove, our meditation anchor still placidly burns, both flames now adrift in limpid pools of wax, the whole apartment redolent of its sweet aroma.

"Here."

"Thank you." He accepts the bowl gratefully and drinks deep, the hot liquid soothing the empty ache, one gnawing beneath my own ribs. We are in hard training every day, and the body's demands for sustenance insistent; here in the Temple, our corporal forms are accustomed to plenty, to rest and nutritive meals. The fast takes its slow toll, merely a pang of discomfort and that peculiar calm clarity pertinent to the first day of deprivation. There is benefit in allowing the body to burn freely for a short time, consuming its own stores like the candle.

I refill Obi-Wan's bowl, and he empties that, too, placing his hands upon folded knees and watching me make a more ceremonial affair of my own tea. I trickle the last contents of the pot into his waiting cup, and he smiles. The brew is fragrant, pleasantly bitter. I smile too, and the Force smoothes into wonted serenity.

"Now what?" he inquires.

Now what, indeed. "You tell me. Is it still my turn?" My saber still hands at _his_ side, so I assume I am yet prisoner to his dictates.

He nods, slowly. "Yes. It's still your turn."

"Then continue to teach me." I set my bowl down upon the floor and mirror his patient posture. There is a far way to go; we will focus only on this moment.

He contemplates the task before him for several minutes. I can feel what a formidable subject I must present from his point of view – experienced, seasoned, a Master of the Order, attuned to the Living Force, impulsive and whimsical by nature: how can such a one be _pushed,_ challenged, especially by his own student? But has already found one fault-line beneath the tranquil landscape of my composure. He will find another. He studies me like a dejarik board, and I must suppress the urge to squirm.

"A centering and focusing exercise," he decides, a judge handing down sentence.

I feign imperturbability. "Which one?"

"Shared memory," he announces, holding out both hands palm outward. His brows rise delicately. "I want you to show me something from your own apprenticeship."

Again, that signature style, a certain elegant economy. Maximum humiliating effect from minimum expenditure – sharing a memory is the most primitive of mental Force skills – a game the crechelings can enjoy, a pastime among friends. Or, in the hands of a skilled duelist, an edged tool to whittle at the thick bark of a master's reserve.

I lay my hands against his, noting that they still do not match in size, though he is growing into adulthood. Exhale. "Anything in particular?" I maintain a casual tone.

Obi-Wan is not trifling with me, and we both know it. But he adopts a similar polite lilt to his voice, the lovely pitched cadence of a negotiator. "Show me when you learned to be afraid of Master Dooku."

_Wretched, impudent brat._ How dare he… but this is a moving meditation, ebb and flow, give and take. "What makes you think such a thing ever happened?"

"You don't love him," my apprentice bluntly asserts. One as deft with his words as Obi-Wan does not do this through lack of skill, but with honed purpose. He is thrusting hard beneath my defenses now, on attack. And since when does he utter that word aloud?

"I am a Jedi. I do not –"

"You love everybody. Even pathetic life forms," he accuses me, stern again. "Don't pretend to misunderstand me, Master."

And I see, with a prescient clarity rarely bestowed upon me by the Force, that Obi-Wan will be a holy terror to whatever unfortunate initiate he someday chooses as Padawan learner. I feel a pang of sympathy for this yet-unnamed individual, shunting the flare of instinctual resentment away into the future on this person's behalf.

"Show me," he commands.

"Padawan." I am not hedging for time; I am constrained by duty. "This is not perhaps your place to know – it concerns not only myself, but a revered member of this Order, one whose faults I would not willingly air. And moreover… you may find it disturbing. Every teaching relationship is different, Obi-Wan. And the end is paramount, the means sometimes convoluted."

He listens to this speech attentively and then looks through me again. "You will have to trust me," he replies, merciless.

Force help me. But every teaching relationship is unique, and this is one I cannot bear to sacrifice. Exhale. Center.

And then I show him, the recollection dredged up from some forgotten place where I had thought to let it languish forever more. There is only the present moment; those things which conspired to make us _ourselves_ in the formative years are carried as wisdom later, their chrysalis state – the raw experience – cast off as a dried shell. Why this is important to Obi-Wan, I cannot fathom. Perhaps he simply needs to see me bare my jugular, so to speak – to him…. or by extension, to another. Perhaps he craves again that inversion of roles, to see the circle completed in a different way, the teacher before he attained any degree of wisdom.

Perhaps he is simply morbidly curious – though this latter seems unlikely.

The memory is not a pleasant one, and I find myself sitting with bowed head in the aftermath, releasing all emotion into the Force. When I have regained sufficient equilibrium to look up at my own apprentice, he has withdrawn into his own contemplative silence, expression guarded, hands threaded together, his gaze reluctant to meet mine.

"I'm sorry," he says at last. Softly. "It is not my place."

It is not, but if I trust anyone with this particular piece of my soul, it would be Tahl, or he. "The punishment was well deserved," I answer. "Do not judge outside context. I did not show you everything, and the memory itself may be colored by subjective perception."

Every teaching relationship is unique. And Jedi training can be harsh.

He hands me back my saber with trembling hand. "It's not your turn anymore."

He takes no enjoyment in others' discomfort. At this age, he cannot even remain serene in the face of others' discomfort. I do not issue objection.

"Very well." I withdraw the blindfold and fix it back in place over his eyes. "Come, then." We have not yet reached the summit, and the rest of this journey is uphill.


	6. Chapter 6

**Restoration**

* * *

_Late day._

The Room of a Thousand Fountains occupies the Temple's centermost spaces, and in my mind it will always be the heart of the edifice, though it is a comparatively recent addition to the vast structure, and located on a more modern upper level, its roof soaring upward through the central mass to full spectrum illumination banks overhead, an artificial dome of the sky. The residential and teaching wings on the eastern side are built up against this manufactured paradise – this carefully preserved sanctuary of life within Coruscant's mercilessly duracrete expanse.

We wander all our familiar paths and haunts, resting in motion, the tread of our boots soft and harmonious as we wend along the time-worn trails, allowing the flowing water of brook and rivulet to erode some of this day's rough edges. It has not been a simple affair, and there is more to be done. Beside me, Obi-Wan is flagging a bit – though we have undertaken very little physical work, and a single day without food is no great burden upon Jedi stamina, even for a padawan, the demands of this extended exercise are invisible and significant, a near profligate expenditure of psychic resources.

When we have wound our way to the center of the organic labyrinth and then back out again through the opposite entrance, he looks up at me though he cannot see through the blindfold's cloth.

"Yes," I answer the unspoken query and lead the way to our next stopping-place.

The moment we pass beneath the arched double doors, his presence is rippling with apprehension.

"Stay here," I instruct, abandoning him to the waiting area, cool and incensed and yet still scented subtly of bacta and disinfecting compounds. Try as they might, the healers cannot entirely expunge the more disagreeable aspects of their domain, the sensory traces a mere echo of the muted but real undertones in the Force. This is a place of peace and nurturing – but it is also a place of suffering and patience. It might be this duality, the confused medley of pain and compassion that stirs the plenum into a marbled ambiguity here, that makes this place so unsettling to my apprentice. Or it may simply be a quirk of his nature. But we can use that.

I go to speak with Ben To Li.

The senior healer is not thrilled by my request but I am not a master negotiator for nothing; a few minutes hard work and he is, if not won over to the cause, at least softened sufficiently not to interfere.

"You owe me one," he gruffly assents. "When I've meditated upon what it is, I'll let you know, Jinn."

"This is necessary," I retort, already on my way to fetch Obi-Wan.

He trails after me, still blindfolded, heroically refraining from any caustic commentary as we proceed through the main hall and deep into enemy territory. I usher him into the large room at the corridor's end, one hand on his shoulder. This is not going to be easy; I can already feel incipient nausea trickling across the training bond.

"Master Li," he says, a greeting faintly edged by accusation.

"Ah, my favorite reprobate whelp," the healer replies, amiably. "Strip, and let's have you up on this table."

A vibrant reluctance slams into me through the Force, my padawan's objection to this charade like a clenching fist in my own belly. I breathe it away. "Trust," I remind him.

He sets his jaw and decides to cooperate, flinging each discarded garment in my direction with a skillful display of accuracy and resentment, until he is standing here before us clad in nothing but smallclothes, skin goose-fleshed and arms crossed over his chest in a posture of utter outrage and disgust. "Now what?" he demands, one brow creeping up over the blindfold's edge.

I see through the bravado, but it is still endearing. "Just trust me and do as you are told," I repeat, infusing the words with enough mollifying condescension to infuriate him further. A touch of anger will help him through this.

"Lie down," Ben To orders, and his victim obeys, with a minimum display of vexation – until the healer quietly starts fixing in place the soft restraints used for surgery or the rare occasion when they are necessary for a distressed patient's own good.

Obi-Wan's lip curls over gritted teeth. "This is not funny, Master."

"Nobody is laughing, Padawan." I give a nod to my conspirator, who looks at me as though I have lost my mind. I glare, and he shrugs, throwing up both hands in disgust, and activating the medical assistant droid in the corner. It hovers solicitously forward, waiting instruction.

My padawan gasps at the sound of repulsors. This might be cruel, after all – I am alarmed by the speed and intensity of his automatic response, the images of Zan Arbor's wicked laboratory that flood over his mental shields in sickening waves as he releases – _pushes- _them away into the Force, brow furrowed into a distraught line. When I place a calming hand over his solar plexus, he nearly jumps out of his own skin.

"Relax," I say, infusing the word with a plea for trust. "And stay still – I promise that nothing untoward will happen."

He manages a bitter breath of laughter, clearly communicating that something untoward has already befallen him, and the intimation that I am a well intentioned liar.

Ben To shakes his head and mutters to himself but waves the droid forward, armed with a standard bioscanner. It proceeds to take the patient's vitals – no very invasive operation - and then asks if he is experiencing any discomfort.

"Oh no," Obi-Wan drawls, acidic, "I'm deriving perverse enjoyment from my position."

The medical assistant drones quietly as it processes this answer. "The scanners did not register any sign of concussion or neurological damage," it murmurs, causing Ben To to hide his smirk behind one hand, stroking his beard into a sharp point. "Have you been screened for psychological abnormalities?"

"Master, are we done yet?"

"Check him for blunt trauma," I suggest.

The moment the droid's spindly digits touch his skin, Obi-Wan is rigid again.

"Padawan, there is no warrant for such histrionics," I warn. "Relax."

"Negative," the droid informs us politely, after a few minutes' prodding.

"Very well. That will be all," Ben To dismisses it.

"We're finished now?"

He thinks he has reached the limits of his patience or endurance; boundaries which do not seem to exist for him outside this sterile realm. "Do you trust me?" I inquire, rhetorically. "I will release you before you go stark raving mad."

It is not a reassuring promise. "How long?" he asks, breath quickening again.

"Until I say so. Trust me," I urge. "I trust you to stay there until I return."

He wriggles in frustration and then wrangles himself into a contained calm. "Yes, Master."

I have to walk away before my resolve breaks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Restoration**

* * *

_Dusk._

I stay in the waiting area, able to retreat thus far but no further, closing my eyes in a simulacrum of meditation, all too acutely aware of my apprentice's deep discomfiture, despite the apparent fact that he is in no real danger. We have been prying beneath each other's protective shells all day, leaving impalpable bruises; little wonder that I sense a faint undertow of recrimination in the Force, a subtle and bristling sense of ill-use for which I would not dare rebuke him.

My conscience is not entirely clean, my transgressions yet unatoned.

It has been long enough, and more than long enough. Ben To's gaze slides between my shoulder blades like a shiv as I pass down the corridor again, and I am grateful he has reserved his harangue for another day and a more private setting. He will flail me with it when next I am at his tender mercy; this is understood between us, and it is a price I will simply have to pay when the time comes. We cannot shirk duty, no matter the cost.

"Obi-Wan."

He has kept his end of the bargain, lying still where I left him, pale and exposed and appearing all but dead in the low lighting. For a moment my imagination flashes to some possible future, and a funeral pyre. Impulsively, I touch his arm, seeking the reassurance of warmth and life. And at my touch, a reticulated citadel of shielding falls away, crumbling to dust, revealing the agony of waiting that I left him to endure, trapped with his own memories like an animal enclosed in a fighting ring.

"Padawan." I had not intended anything so extreme, only a –

"Are you satisfied?" he grinds out, bellicosity making his voice rasp.

"I cannot meditate here. You know that." Another whiplash accusation, tinted with rancor.

My heart twists. His turn is coming. We are nearly done. "This was about trust," I hear myself say, as though from a great distance.

It takes much to push him past the edge of control. It has been six weeks since the last time – not long enough for the scars to have hardened. The scabs are easily threshed away from the half-mended wound, and we are one step from the place where we began. "I _trust_ you, Master! I trust you to make me _insane!_ You know why apprentices Turn, don't you? _Don't you?"_

"Collect yourself," I callously reply. "You will disturb this entire ward."

"Let me go," he hisses, Force coiling into a deadly placidity, a banked and incendiary power.

"You are not constrained by any real means," I remind him "It is your choice to trust and obey me that keeps you here."

The restraints snap off and he is on his feet, blindfold ripped off and tossed upon the floor between my boots. A hard swallow. Eye to eye now, I can see through his guttering rage to the uncertainty just beyond, the place where a silent keening wail is already building. We need to finish this meditation soon before one of us is indeed driven mad.

"I'm tired," he says, flatly, that inferno of possibilities not quenched but contained.

"As am I." Bone weary. "But we must continue. One more time – it is my turn again, I think."

He accepts the inherent logic of this game, though he hates its content. I cleave to the hidden meaning, loathing the form it must take We are complementary in this, too – the ritual of this commands his respect and devotion, while it sickens me. But we will do this _his _way because it must end – soon – on my terms. The ones I am about to foist upon him.

"I don't want to – I don't know what to –"

"I do. And this will be the last exercise. I promise."

The light at this tunnel's end beckons us onward, and we follow, equally confused, equally weary. Well beyond the need for another contrived ploy, I take us down to a relatively empty corner of the Temple, a nook in the older sections where overflow practice rooms and sparring salons are located, and Force seal the doors behind us in both corridor and the chamber I have selected. The lights are not automatic, and I must fumble for a monet to locate the control panel and wave them to a low setting.

"Here we are."

His gaze roams over the unadorned walls, the scarred fllorboards. His nose rumples at the musty, stale air. "The ceilings are too low," he decides.

Spoken like a true devotee of Ataru. "They are seldom used, for just such a reason," I reply, "though there is something to be said for learning to fight in close quarters."

His eyes light upon the electrowhip I have left coiled upon the inset bench, then widen in alarm. "We are _not_ practicing or sparring with that _thing,"_ he grunts, skewering me with a sharp look.

I bow to him. "No. I had something else in mind This is the last … kata… we must perform, I think."

"What do you mean?" His voice breaks a little, and I know that the question is merely buying time.

"Obi-Wan. I know that you find the notion repulsive, but I assure you, it is necessary. Trust demands absolute honesty and mutuality. I have meditated upon this for weeks."

He shakes his head, abhorred. "No."

I lay a conciliatory hand upon his shoulder. "You must trust me, one last time. I will trust you to … do the right thing."

Like a saber blade flaring into scorching life, his temper, so long suppressed, breaks the banks of its impressive levees and explodes, flooding this entire space with revulsion, and then – yes, my heart is stuttering, because this is unscripted and very real, and he is teetering on the edge of anger – a cold, fey light.

Oh Force. Here we are at last.

"_Fine." _ Those eyes are arctic fire blue now, fringed with deceptively soft lashes. The Force is a nimbus of hard-edged light about him, starfire, ready to illumine or to burn, undecided, wavering between perilous extremes. He summons the whip in to his hand, hissing again when it touches his skin, as though he has defiled himself by touching it.

I inhale, deeply. And then I kneel and pull my tunics off, presenting my bare back to him.

Exhale. Center.

"You _trust_ me not to do this, don't you?" he asks, hoarsely.

"I trust you to do the right thing. I trust this to have a good outcome."

"You arrogant, renegade barve!"

He means it, too. Exhale. Slowly. It is deserved, and moreover, it is true.

"You trust me to stand here and see what it was like and make the proper choice, don't you? You trust me to be compassionate and merciful and passionless, don't you? You _count _ on it."

"I trust you to find wisdom here."

"I don't trust myself!" he throws at me, voice raw and softening about the edges. "I _can_ do this, you know. I have the anger. I _would."_

"Then why don't you?"

He hesitates, and the past crashes back down upon our heads, and we are in that Sith-damned cell, Merggum leering at me, taunting me, daring me to betray myself, to throw away the last chance of escape and saving Obi-Wan's life. Tempting me to betray my padawan's trust, the excruciating decision to be made, the fulcrum point between then and now.

"I trust you, Obi-Wan. Do what you will."

Understand this: the Force commands us both, and there comes a time when its mandate is so all-consuming, so clarion clear, that it can be neither distinguished from passion nor divorced from emotion, its certainty a kind of blinding ignorance, submission to it will a kind of death. The Code is twined about this mystery, concealing what it reveals. There are three: master, student, the Force. And sometimes there is only one.

I do not distinguish the three from each other when the wire cord slashes furiously across my back, electric fire ripping though my spine and shoulders, setting my teeth hard on edge, slicing through my temples, coursing down legs and arms. I almost topple over.

Unexpected.

The second strike doubles the pain of the first. Accept it, Jinn, you deserve it. You wrought it with your own hands. You chose it and you owned it, and you must embrace all the consequences.

It _hurts_ like Sith, because it is inflicted by one who loves.

I feel that much, certainly.

Then the weapon is hurled, with a cry of utter repugnance, into the far wall, and there is the soft slump of knees hitting stone flagstones.

"Qui-Gon," a young voice sobs.

So we are finished. I blink and grit my teeth and move – _carefully,it hurts-_ turn about – and scoot, undignified, ungraceful, and bleeding, across the short space between us. He looks up at me with anguished eyes and then kowtows before me, forehead against the cold floor.

I stroke his back. Mine is a seething mass of singed nerves. Ben To is going to have his vengeance sooner than I supposed. Obi-Wan has had his – well, not vengeance. He has tasted a terrible wisdom here tonight. My part was nothing, a mere occasion. I wait a space of ten deep breaths and then lift my devastated apprentice up, and clasp him to my chest. I trusted him, and he did not disappoint. He did the right thing, took the hard path of self knowledge, was completely open and honest, not hiding or repressing the anger, not living by a code or by rote or by stricture but by the heart, in the Living present, in the maelstrom of shifting Balance. I will cherish this moment for years to come. It is a threshold, a transformative exchange.

"I did that- I chose it," he tells me, shaking. "You didn't make me. I chose."

"I know." And he knows, too, that this was wrong, just as my action in the first place was wrong, in some sense. Suffering is wrong, it is a manifestation of chaos, the negation of harmony. We plunged into that shadowed vale six weeks hence, through a punishing act, and we have just crawled over the jagged lip of that precipice, torn and bloodied and all but beaten, through another punishing act, making the sum of regret between us proportionate, if not equal. We must trust each other to accept apology; we must trust the other's imperfections. We must learn together.

We are not saints, Obi-Wan. We are seekers. I am honored to seek alongside you, a pace – sometimes a scant pace – ahead. I wonder, someday, if you will lead me. I could believe it of you.

"I'm sorry… Qui-Gon."

A breathtaking gift. I tighten the embrace. "Now, of course, we must both undertake other exercises. Centering. Release of anger. Harmony of mind. Others too horrible to be mentioned."

His shoulders shake with… yes. Dark humor. I quirk a smile.

"Yes, Master."

And the return to normalcy is a palpable relief. We find our feet together, and leave the whip where it has fallen. "I don't dare present myself to the healers for inspection," I grunt, shrugging into my tunics rather gingerly. "We have bacta liniment in quarters."

He does not argue. And I know that we have again snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, forged trust out of the raw ore of human frailty. The Force is mysterious, and wonderful is that which it hath wrought.

"I'm so blasted _tired,"_ Obi-Wan complains, cheerfully.

I know, young one. I know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Restoration**

* * *

_Sunrise._

We stumbled back to quarters last night, a pair of storm-tossed pilgrims limping into a safe harbor, neither breaking our fast nor waiting long enough to complete the most perfunctory ablutions before collapsing across our respective palettes and succumbing to sleep.

That is all I remember of last night.

Now, as new day breaks through the balcony doors' flimsy auto-tinting ramparts, there is time and energy enough to complete the extended meditation properly. I prepare a light tea – our hunger has dissipated into a diaspora of want, lightheadedness and the ache of undernourished muscle, a ravenousness outstripping mere appetite. We will eat soon, but not yet. Obi-Wan carefully moves the meditation candle to the floor, cautious not to spill its wide pool of wax nor to snuff the flame as he transports it to the new location.

"Master."

I smile at his childish pleasure.

"You chose this one on purpose."

"Nothing happens without reason, Padawan." Now that the double light is nearly spent, the wicks are revealed to be one, twisted together inextricably at their root. The symbolism is not wasted upon him, nor upon me. There is much to be learned from a simple artifact. We share the tea in silence, drawing out the moment, watching the flickering tongues of fire slowly merge into a brighter unity.

We shall end this meditation _his _ way, after all. There is value in liturgy, and we have flirted with chaos enough this last day. I roll back on my heels, folding my hands on my knees, and he does the same, facing me across the burning pillar.

Now it is his place to ask, and mine to answer. He allows the question to well up from intuitive depths, savoring the bitter flavor of new wisdom, the tang that mellows and deepens with time, before he hesitantly speaks.

"You said that you trusted me last night, Master. But you did not expect me to act as I did."

This is not a question, grammatically speaking, but I will not twit him about it, not while we are both so raw. Later, perhaps. Later. And I am grateful that there will be a later. Besides, I understand the implicit query. "Trust does not mean knowing what the other will _do_ – or think, or say. Trust does not grant us predictive power, nor the right to impose safe limits, boundaries past which we will not suffer another to trespass."

I let this sink in. I speak in contradiction of received and common notions. But Obi-Wan has been raised in the Temple since infancy, and he is well accustomed to paradox.

"Our exercises," he begins, tentatively. "They seemed to be counterproductive at first – you, and then I – we purposefully crossed those limits. We looked for them and violated them."

Perceptive. If I could claim credit for his insight I would be proud. "Yes. To have one's self-imposed limits thus challenged produces great defensive energy and can lead to anger and resentment."

He dips his head, never one to hide from a truth. "I was angry," he admits.

"Of course. I do not blame you. And-" I risk a small smile," You proved quite adept at ruffling my calm as well." It takes talent to destroy a Master's composure. Talent and ruthlessness. I won't underestimate him again.

"Trust," I continue, "in the truest sense, means a willingness to have these boundaries violated, or ignored, by a particular person. To relinquish the existence of such barriers or limits on the strength of the other's regard and essential intention."

"I intended to hurt you, Master."

"I know. But I trusted that whatever you chose to do – and I was surprised, make no mistake – that you would do it with integrity, with meaning, and if need be a soulful apology."

He frowns over this, too, each piece of the evolving puzzle slotted into place, stored in the cavernous archives of memory and vital knowledge. "Trust does not imply a guarantee that the other will make no error."

"Nor does it guarantee that the other will never inflict hurt, intentionally or otherwise. We are mortal and fallible. To trust someone never to fail is to condemn him to failure."

"May I ask you something personal, Master?"

I spread my hands open. "While we are at it."

"Xanatos. You trusted him and he betrayed you. How does that fit with what you said?"

"He ceased to be himself when he left the Path." I close my eyes, the doomsday tolling of that fateful day still faintly echoing in the Force. I can revisit it whenever I please, which is never. "He transgressed against the Force itself more than me… that is a different matter."

Obi-Wan still seems unsettled, unsure perhaps where _he_ is cemented within this architecture of boundaries and violations. "If we were ever to part ways," I carefully state, mindful of the choice so recently laid before him, of the renewed consciousness that his position of obedience and submission is entirely voluntary, "I would still trust you, knowing that your essential heart is turned toward the Light."

He shifts, uneasy with the notion, or embarrassed by the implicit praise. When he finally meets my eyes, there is a gloss of emotion in his own. "I trust you," he says, simply – and nearly choking on the words.

"And I you."

If we are to play these roles - teacher and student, fixed stars in a perrenial constellation and yet living vessels of the Force's will, we must embrace this uncomfortable aspect of trust. We - Jedi - trust the Force without reservation, even when it brings us suffering, or confusion, or loss. We open ourselves at these times, knowing that the Light is comfort and strength, but that it is not _safe. _It is not tame nor predictable nor subject to the boundaries we impose upon it. If we are to trust the Force, we must be sometimes carried past our own limits. And here, in the ageless lineage, teacher and student must sometimes represent this facet of wisdom to each other, forgiving and asking forgiveness, trusting the Light to guide our mutual path, to correct our mutual errors.

The meditation candle finally expires, sending up a final benediction of fragrant smoke. We watch it spiral lazily to the ceiling.

"So…" Obi-Wan pauses, gathering his thoughts, reaching into the Force for clarity, for a humorous shield beneath which to protect this sacred pact. "None of it was a test. It was a way of… discovering whether we could tolerate each other's company for another five years."

"Ten, my wayward brat. You still have _much_ to learn."

This is rewarded with a brilliant grin, one far surpassing the dawn's bold radiance. "I should like to learn about _breakfast_ now, with your permission, Master."

And that will be a fine first step. We will take it together.

**Finis**


End file.
